


The Artist Formerly Known As Bonesaw

by Octobre



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Gen, Peggy Sue, Time Travel, Ward Spoilers, but no actual Ward knowledge is necessary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-01-03 12:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21179717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octobre/pseuds/Octobre
Summary: Two years after Gold Morning, Riley wakes up as Bonesaw again.





	1. Homecomer

The first thing Riley noticed upon waking up was the warm body curled up against her back.

She thought she’d outgrown the need for company at night a long time ago – had been forced to, really – but the bliss of a sated craving almost made her purr with contentment. It felt like home. She leaned against the warmth, savouring the moment while it lasted.

The second thing she noticed was the slight distortion in her sense of touch towards anything that wasn’t the other person. Even years later, the sensation carried enough familiarity not to feel out of place. It spoke of safety and comfort and soothed nightmares, having lulled her to sleep so many times before.

The third thing she noticed was herself. It would be hard not to, with her power, but she tried nonetheless. She clung to the warmth and invulnerability wrapped snugly around her like a blanket, forcing herself to focus solely on the coziness.

It worked at first, but the part of her brain that couldn’t help cataloguing the differences in her body became harder and harder to ignore as the haze of sleep left her.

Riley hadn’t been allowed to modify herself since Amy forcibly removed all of her tech from her body. The result had been uncomfortably light and foreign at first, and the vulnerability was terrifying, but she’d grown used to it over the past two years.

The difference was dizzying.

This body was only a bit smaller than the one she’d worn for two and a half years, but it was heavy with the hardware and mods that had been worked into every available space. Her proprioception extended to the weapons and mechanical parts hidden on the inside, and she could reach for them as easily as moving individual fingers. An array of mental switches and controls awaited her input. Her heartbeat pounded in her throat, the sound tracing the outlines of a modified circulatory system. Everywhere, intricate structures brimmed with activity.

Hidden blades rearranged themselves as she flexed one wrist experimentally, and the subdermal mesh shifted seamlessly to follow the movement.

Her attention caught on the stiff, blood-crusted sleeve of her nightgown. Two years of aggressively enforced biosafety measures urged her to clean the mess before someone noticed and docked her privileges, to which her conscious mind raised the rather more pressing issue that _she wasn’t alone in the bed._

Comfort drained away from the warmth as reality sunk in, leaving only suffocating heat and the rancid aftertaste of bile on the edge of her throat.

She pushed away the questions of _how_ and _why_. They weren’t useful right now. She tried to do the same with the growing knot in her stomach, but it was anchored too deep to budge.

One slow inhalation, followed by an exhalation three times longer, then she opened her eyes.

Morning light peeked through the curtains of the window she was facing, painting the room in shadows. A room twice as large as her quarters with the Wardens, and three times as crowded.

It was clearly intended for a child, and clearly curated by an adult who had made it their mission to sanitize away the slightest trace of personality.

Matching furniture surrounded the bed, all glossy white with clean lines and small button handles. Framed posters with inspirational messages and bright colors adorned the walls. In the corner next to the bedside table, a three tier shelf displayed a pristine arrangement of toys and stuffed animals that seemed to exist to be admired rather than played with. The bookshelf in the other corner wasn’t much better, with tasteful ornaments between aesthetically pleasing sections of books.

It must have been an incredibly boring room to live in.

Of course, _someone_ had taken it upon themselves to add some much needed personality.

Dark handprints cut a sharp contrast on the pale walls and white furniture. A few were superimposed to form butterflies or figures; others dragged the fingers into waves and abstract patterns.

Bits and pieces of spider boxes and control frames were piled up at the foot of the bookshelf. Below the window, the desk had been commandeered as a base of operations. Half of the space was covered with an arrangement of organs displayed like a solar system model. They were held in place and linked to the others via thin strips of connective tissue and an artificial circulatory system. A mess of tools and equipment covered the rest of the desk, along with several racks of test tubes.

The desk only had one row of drawers, leaving room underneath for a cooler and a large water reservoir seemingly filled with blood.

Between the desk and the shelf of toys, there was the Mannequin-made backpack used to protect glassware and sensitive equipment while Shatterbird sang. Power tools littered the floor in front of it, plugged into an extension cord to recharge.

On the bedside table, the lamp had been pushed aside to make room for a fish bowl with lumps of grey matter floating around in viscous liquid, with plastic wrap held in place over the top with elastic bands.

Head still on the pillow, Riley cranked her neck to look at the frame above the bedside table. The words “Rise and shine!” were written in elegant gold cursive on a white background, above a stylized golden sun. Blood had been used to finger-paint a face over the sun. Eyes crossed out, tongue lolling from the mouth and a knife stabbing through the forehead. The words “And kill!” had been added next to “shine!”, still in blood.

Riley suppressed a groan.

Movement against her back prompted her to turn and look at her companion. Yellow eyes met hers, and a hand moved to brush a lock of hair out of Riley’s face. _Bonesaw_’s face.

She was too dazed to remember which muscles to move in order to achieve anything resembling a natural smile, much less the usual carefree grin. She tried, and her failure drew an inquisitive eyebrow from Siberian.

“Had a bad dream,” Riley offered as an explanation, voice higher than she’d heard in years.

The hand moved to her shoulder, pulling her closer until her face was buried in the crook of Siberian’s neck. Siberian held her tightly enough to blur the edges of invincibility between them, and Riley allowed herself to hold her back just as tight.

The pressure made her skin tingle, but relief surged like she’d just let go after holding her breath for too long. Unease still tied her stomach, but she could ignore it as long as she kept her focus on the embrace.

Riley didn’t remember much of her earliest days with the Nine, but one crystallized memory was the relief and gratitude she’d felt when she realized why Siberian constantly hovered around her and found excuses to touch her. Things became a little bit better, once Riley understood. A little bit easier. She learned to stop flinching under the touch, and even started seeking it.

It was so easy to fall back into that mindset.

A cabinet door slammed somewhere downstairs, souring the moment.

Who would that be? Past experiences pointed to Shatterbird as both an early riser and a slammer of doors, but Riley’s mind went to Jack first, because _he_ was the one she dreaded to see most.

At least she didn’t wake up cuddling with him. Small mercies.

Riley broke the hug and sat up. Her safety blanket vanished, leaving her feeling ten degrees colder, and the distortion stopped as regular physics reclaimed jurisdiction over her body.

Siberian pushed the covers back and rose from the bed before Riley was done untangling her legs from the sheets. The woman made her way to the vanity on her side of the room and expectantly pulled back the stool.

Riley’s feet found the bedside rug, and the differences in her body threw her off balance as she took a tentative first step. She stretched, both to cover for her clumsiness and to get a better sense of what she was working with, and leaned heavily on the information her power provided to compensate for the difference as she walked around the bed to join Siberian.

She sat down, eyes cast firmly downward and away from the mirror. Siberian picked up the brush, and a fraction of the tension in Riley’s neck washed away under the soothing motions.

Careful, even strokes dug into her scalp in the most pleasant manner, unfurling curls to their full length before they sprung back into shape. Goosebumps rose on the back of her neck with the end of each stroke, in anticipation of the next.

It had been so long since someone else brushed her hair. It felt so _good_.

It was also useless.

A pretense of normalcy. An artifact from another life. An empty gesture of affection between two people playing pretend.

This hair didn’t tangle or get messy. The modified proteins shaped it in permanent, impeccable ringlets no matter what mistreatment it received. Hair maintenance was a pure formality, which was good, because Siberian had no idea how to brush curly hair, and Riley had never dared to correct her.

Because she’d been scared at first. Because it didn’t matter when she could correct the hair instead. Because doing it the right way would invite the ghostly memories of someone else’s hands into their daily ritual.

The ringlets felt foreign now. Amy’s power didn’t work on hair, so Riley had undone them herself as a voluntary step away from the image, and she’d let her curls grow wild ever since.

But the brushing _was_ nice. And it bought her time to think.

Riley was grateful for her life since Gold Morning, no matter how much she might dislike the strict surveillance and heavy restrictions and mistrust and loneliness.

It was fair, even if it wasn’t _easy_.

Finding herself in a skin she had outgrown, wearing a mask that didn’t fit in front of a family that wasn’t hers anymore was _not_ the kind of second chance she’d hoped for.

What now?

Knowing when “now” was would be a good first step.

She could feel her tech, or at least the parts she could move voluntarily, but that didn’t translate to instant recognition. There was no time to examine each piece individually. The vast majority was years in the making anyways, with too many gradual improvements to pin down the date based on the current iteration.

She searched for a handful of more memorable additions instead.

The most recent one she could place with certitude was the remote piloting system implemented in January of 2011, when it took four hours to retrieve her body after she was decapitated. Her six year anniversary with the Nine had been eventful, to say the least.

She couldn’t narrow down the time any further without more hints, and there were no obvious ones to reach for.

She didn’t recognize her surroundings either. The group moved around so often that most places blurred together.

On the run, with heat on their backs, Jack chose hideouts by convenience over comfort, no matter how much Shatterbird might complain about the lack of plumbing or electricity. This wasn’t the case. They were laying low rather than running or actively attacking a city, and judging by the state of the room, they’d been here for at least a week.

This meant isolation. Somewhere out of the way, with no traffic and no immediate neighbors. No occupants who would draw attention by going missing, if they were planning to stay here for a while.

Laying low also meant the others would all be there. More eyes to track her movements and notice the differences, and more people to fight in order to break away. Chances were good that the core group would be intact. Jack, Siberian, Crawler, Mannequin and Shatterbird. Those who had been there since the start of her tenure with the Nine.

What could she do?

Staying was out of question, but running without a plan was a terrible idea. She’d seen reluctant members who tried to run away. She’d _worked_ on reluctant members who tried to run away. Jack made it into a hunting game, with Crawler or Siberian usually winning and claiming their prey, then tossing her the leftovers to play with.

Crawler was a sweetheart, but he could outrun speedsters and track a familiar smell from a mile away. Riley could change her smell or cover it, but would need more data on his current biology to determine which chemicals would confuse his senses rather than leave a conspicuous trail of their own. The acids he produced were strong enough to kill her if he swallowed her whole, and might even stop the spread of plagues that would follow her death.

She didn’t like thinking about Ned as an opponent. He’d been a friend once, even if that didn’t count for much now.

Siberian would never hurt her. Would never hurt _Bonesaw_, she amended. Which meant that she couldn’t appear as anything less than Bonesaw as long as Siberian was in the picture. If things went wrong, Riley's only defense against Siberian would be to locate Manton, and she couldn’t do that without conspicuous preparations that would give away the show.

Siberian might not let her out of her sight at all, which brought a whole different set of complications.

Riley’s ability to defeat Mannequin was entirely dependent on her understanding of his current arsenal, which she lacked. She didn’t even know her _own_ arsenal at the moment. It would take her hours, if not days, to get properly reacquainted with everything.

Shatterbird could be taken out of the equation fairly easily, as well as most of the short-lived members who would be completing the rooster. Not a serious consideration.

And Jack…

Phantom eyes scrutinized her from years away, wordlessly picking apart a veneer held together only by a machine.

Jack would know something was up the second he saw her, but he couldn’t do anything about it right away without provoking Siberian. Unless, of course, he turned Siberian against her first.

Or worse, he could convince her to stay. To be Bonesaw again.

Jack was the biggest threat, and her best chance of survival was to take him out before he realized anything was amiss.

Hopefully he wasn’t awake yet.

Riley opened her eyes, facing the mirror. The lost expression looked out of place on Bonesaw’s face, and conscious effort molded it into something more in character. Siberian squeezed her shoulder before putting the brush down.

At least one person was already up, and Riley couldn’t tell for sure that it wasn’t him, but the gamble was worth taking. The window of opportunity, if there really was one, was shrinking by the second.

“Bathroom,” she told Siberian while rising from her seat. “Wait for me?”

Siberian nodded, and Riley smiled. The smile remained until she closed the door behind her.

Hope surged as the smell of coffee greeted her in the hallway, confirming Shatterbird’s presence in the kitchen. She prided herself in her ability to make an excellent coffee, and would savagely tear down anyone else’s attempt. Only newbies ever made that mistake, to everyone else’s entertainment.

Silent footsteps carried Riley to the nearest room, door slightly ajar. A glance found it empty.

A calming breath quieted her trepidation. There were more rooms in the corridor.

She continued.

Bathroom. Door open, lights out. The days old blood trail on the carpet coming from the stairs wasn’t worth investigating.

She continued.

Another bedroom. Door open, curtains drawn. Red clothes crumpled on the floor prompted her to look up, and she found the scorched husk of the smoke detector hanging sadly from the hallway’s ceiling, a large patch of blackened paint peeling around it.

Burnscar. Probably in the kitchen with Shatterbird.

There was only one door left before reaching the stairs, closed, and with no light showing under it.

Muffled echoes carried over from downstairs, unintelligible over the blood pounding in her ears. She half-expected the floor to creak or the door hinges to squeak or _something_ to go horribly wrong as she opened the door as quietly as she could, but her sense of impending doom appeared to be off-target.

The good news was that it _was_ Jack’s room. The collection of knives spread across the dresser was clue enough.

The bad news was that he wasn’t there, which meant he was up already.

She forced herself to breathe, splitting the difference between relief and panic to settle on dread.

The prospect of going back to her room was eclipsed by that of locking herself in the bathroom until she had a half-decent exit strategy.

Her feet refused to move.

Goosebumps surged on the back of her neck, and the dread turned to panic.

“Snooping much?” Jack said.

She froze, air held hostage in her lungs. There was no programming to guide her movements, but the body that turned around to face him felt so alien and disconnected from her mind that there might as well have been.

He stood right behind her, clad in a plush bathrobe that looked ridiculously out of place on him, hair heavy with water and dripping on the towel around his shoulders. Bare feet on the carpet hadn’t made enough noise to tip her off as he climbed the stairs.

“Was looking for you,” a voice that wasn’t hers chirped from a body she wasn’t controlling. “Had a bad dream.”

He studied her, icy blue eyes piercing her like the knives littering his room. Time stretched enough that she couldn’t tell for sure whether the moment should be counted in seconds or minutes or lifetimes.

“Come here,” he finally said, raising an arm.

It felt like the opposite of a hug. A hug whose warmth had been cut out with surgical precision, leaving ice cold negative space where the warmth should be. Her lungs closed off to avoid smelling him, and for a second, she couldn’t tell whether the heartbeat that pounded against the side of her head was hers or his. A calloused hand settled on the back of her neck, under her hair, exerting just a bit more pressure than necessary.

She remembered his hugs feeling good and warm and comforting, and had to shut down the thought before she broke a tooth from clenching her jaw too hard.

She could fire the poison needle in her index finger at point blank, or flood the hallway with gas, or short out his nervous system with a touch, or do a hundred different things to end this right now.

She didn’t.

She _couldn’t_.

This was too long ago. She didn’t know what upgrades he had, or what she’d immunized him against. She couldn’t use anything without knowing for sure, because it would be worse to take a shot at him and _miss_ than to do nothing at all.

Anything that wasn’t effective on the first try would be met with instant retaliation.

He'd declined an offer for retractable razor blades under his fingernails half a lifetime ago, citing the mundane elegance of a well-crafted knife, but her imagination still found the edges of hidden blades around her neck, ready to strike.

He was faster, stronger, more experienced, and she’d just lost the element of surprise.

She should have known she wouldn’t do anything from the moment he offered a hug, because it meant _he_ knew she wouldn’t do anything. Not that he trusted her, no. He knew something was up. But he trusted his own ability to keep her in line.

And he’d been _right_. The realization turned to ice in her veins.

He let go of her, and there was a wet spot on the shoulder of her nightgown where water had dripped from his hair. She shivered.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes,” she lied, a smile pasted on her face.

He smiled too, eyes alight.

She’d seen that look countless times before. When people tried to dictate the rules of engagement and change the game. When heroes with strong ideals and exploitable weaknesses came after them. When a candidate was unusually hard to break and finding the right test proved to be a challenge. When Cherish joined with ambitions out of her depth, or when someone attempted a more direct takeover.

When he found out about the end of the world.

She could remember the very first time she saw that look, as she emerged from the hazy fog where her passenger had made contact.

He’d found a new game to sate his boredom.

“Now, go get dressed and come down for breakfast. We have a big day ahead of us.”

His eyes burned through her back as she hurried to the safety of her room.


	2. Impostor

A concerned look fell on Siberian’s face as Riley made her way back into the room.

Would it be more suspicious to ignore the silent question, or to acknowledge it? Bonesaw was anything but shy when something bothered her, but getting caught in a lie was worse than acting out of character.

She offered Siberian a reassuring smile that hopefully didn’t look as hollow as it felt, and made her way to the clothes.

Dresses hung from the top of the wardrobe’s door, and the travel bag containing the rest of her clothes lay on the dresser, a fair share of its content spilled around it.

Even with her back turned, she could feel Siberian’s eyes on her.

“What do you think?” Riley asked her while lifting the hem of one dress. “This one?”

Siberian shook her head and pointed to a sunny yellow dress. Something bright and happy.

The muscles holding the smile in place were straining, but Riley didn’t betray any of it as she nodded in agreement. Siberian busied herself making the bed, turning her back to her as she changed.

Once done, she opened the curtains and found that it was still early enough in the year that tree leaves hadn’t bloomed yet. She tore through the pile of clothes to find a vest, then discarded it for one that matched her dress better. Socks were traded for warm tights, with non-slip ankle socks on top for good measure.

Siberian finished straightening the bed runner and decorative pillows that had been kicked off during the night, and gently pressed a matching bow to the side of Riley’s head as she stood in front of the mirror.

Riley had never been one to wear a costume or participate in those silly dress-up games that most capes insisted upon. The closest she had ever come was when leaving the pocket dimension to shop incognito, and it had been camouflage more than anything else.

_ This _ was a costume, with matching clothes and perfect hair and carefully curated smiles in lieu of armor and masks, and with Bonesaw’s skin as a suit to layer those upon.

She would need weapons too.

Riley made her way to the desk. The chair held most of the equipment Bonesaw usually carried on herself, with tool holsters to go under the sleeves and straps around the thighs for the basic chemicals she could mix and match on the fly. She put them on.

Underneath the pile was all the stuff she must have emptied from her pockets before going to bed. Some candy, candy wrappers she hadn’t thrown away, a finger severed under the second phalange, a pen, some safety pins, an empty syringe, and, at the very bottom, the phone that doubled as a remote control for the spider boxes.

She turned it on, and the lock screen displayed the date.

Friday, April 8, 2011.

Her estimation had been off by a few months, but there was no new information to glean from the date, she realized with annoyance as she slipped the phone in her pocket. Her life back then hadn’t been structured in a way where keeping track of time was important.

Siberian sat down on the bed as Riley started sorting through the mess on the desk.There were too many test tubes to examine them individually, so she grabbed the most recent-looking rack and crammed as many as possible in her pockets. Chances were good that the others hadn’t been immunized to at least some of those yet.

Jack was a problem that needed to be dealt with. Jack’s _ power _ was a problem that needed to be dealt with. And it wouldn’t be an easy one, if her earlier failure was any indication.

_ “So let’s think about that. He’s got a thinker power that lets him manipulate parahumans, or read them, or gauge how they’ll react. He uses it, probably unconsciously, to constantly maintain the edge. And he gets bored. You’ve seen him get bored, haven’t you, Riley?” _

The words from that meeting had haunted her through sleepless nights and restless days after Gold Morning. She’d approached the question with her best approximation of objectivity. She was good at figuring out powers, and this one was no exception. It was even obvious in retrospect.

Jack’s passenger was in cahoots with the other passengers to give him an unfair advantage.

Most of her research on the subject had been to understand the impact of his power, to gauge how much was her and how much was him. She _ hadn’t _ investigated ways to actively counter it, and had only speculated about range, limitations and mechanisms, because he wasn’t an active threat anymore and resources were better spent elsewhere.

She didn’t need scientific data to know how things ended for people who fought against Jack. She could picture his amused grin once she failed and had nowhere left to hide. He _ loved _ those kinds of things, and would stretch it out on purpose.

He would _ monologue _.

Aside from making for a very compelling mental picture, siccing Siberian on Jack would be a Bad Idea. Siberian would win in any straight fight, but Jack’s fights were anything but straight. He didn’t need to win, just to convince her not to fight him, and then he could turn Siberian against Riley.

A workable solution would require one of two things. Keeping Siberian on her side and away from Jack, or finding a way around his power.

Could she disable it from afar?

She found a jar of her prions at the back of the desk. Her faithful, Gemma-crippling prions. The original recipe only worked on active control, not subconscious powers, but Bonesaw had seven variations in the work. Riley grabbed the most aggressive one. It was in powder form, which she couldn’t use without getting close enough to be killed before it took effect. Airborne transmission was a better choice.

The jar went in her pocket, and she rummaged through the mess for bits and pieces to cannibalize into a diffuser.

Mannequin could counter it easily, but unless he was actively monitoring the air content, he wouldn’t have time to act before everyone else was affected.

A sharp knock nearly made her jump out of her skin, but she had a façade ready when Jack opened the door a second later.

He looked at her, then looked at the hasty construction in her hands, and the world stilled for a second.

He looked back at her with a pointed look. “You know the rules, poppet. No tinkering before breakfast, or we’d never get anything done.” He nodded his head towards the corridor. “Come on.”

She dropped her half-finished diffuser and followed obediently, Siberian on her heels.

_ Stupid. _ She should have begged Siberian to run away with her the second they were alone, instead of getting dressed like he told her.

The staircase brought them down to the living room, where Crawler lounged while watching the news. Furniture had been pushed around to accommodate his size, but even then, he had to curl up on himself to fit. They had to walk in front of the television to reach the kitchen, and hurried to avoid disrupting him.

Riley saw Murder Rat sitting on the couch, and _ boy _ was that embarrassing. Crooked staples, shoddy workmanship, and the telltale lividity and bloating of tissue on the verge of going bad. _ Terrible _ work. Ways to fix, to improve, to undo coalesced in her mind’s eye, and she let them. It was easy to be swept away by the stream of ideas. Easier than to examine the unease gripping her stomach.

She couldn’t afford to break character.

The important thing was that Murder Rat’s lack of active decomposition meant she was still a fully-fledged member of the Nine. That gave Riley a better point of reference than the date.

The kitchen found Shatterbird at the stove and Burnscar at the table. Mannequin was nowhere to be seen, which wasn’t a big surprise. He didn’t eat and wasn’t very social, so he would have claimed a space for himself to tinker in peace. Good for now, but it made for an unknown variable in an eventual fight.

With Murder Rat on the team, either Hatchet Face or Cherish would be completing their ranks, but neither was present. Hatchet Face would be an easy solution to a lot of problems. Cherish… would be the opposite.

A steaming mug of black coffee awaited Jack on the countertop, and he settled with it against the small expanse of wall that separated the adjoined kitchen and living room. The position afforded him a view of everyone, but he kept his eyes mostly on her.

Siberian made a beeline for the door under the stairs and went down to the basement, leaving Riley to contemplate the kitchen cabinets. They were numerous enough that she could easily guess wrong, and it would be suspicious for her not to know where things were, if they’d been staying here for a while. She checked the dish rack instead, and was relieved to find a bowl there. She grabbed a towel to dry it.

At the stove, Shatterbird was cooking some fancy omelet, a book in one hand and a mug of coffee on the countertop next to her. Her eyes strayed from the book every once in a while, tracking Jack’s attention. On one occasion, Riley caught them tracking _ more _ than his attention.

_ Ewww _.

How had she not noticed that the first time around? Maybe that was for the best, she told herself, repressing a shiver of disgust at the unwanted mental image.

Siberian was already back and sitting at the table by the time Riley’s bowl was ready to use. There was room both across and next to her, and Riley went with the latter to avoid turning her back to Jack.

Burnscar had helped herself to a box of Frooty Toots, with the questionable decision to mix them with orange juice.

“We’re out of milk,” she said, a touch defensive, while handing the box to Riley from across the table. Her other hand was molding a flame into animated figures.

“I finished the eggs too,” Shatterbird added while sitting down next to Burnscar. “And I’m all out of sparkling water. Someone needs to do a grocery run.”

“Hm.” Jack made a sound, eyes finally lifting from Riley as she poured herself a bowl of cereal to eat dry and orange-juice-less. “The fancy one that comes in _ glass _ bottles?” he asked dryly.

“I’m not about to drink something that comes in _ plastic _,” Shatterbird answered, biting the last word with a viciousness she usually reserved for disappointing candidates or people who disagreed with her literary opinions.

“The nearest store that carries the brand is in Burlington, and there’s no intact glass left _ there _. I thought you filled up Mannequin’s box before you sang.”

“_ I _ thought we would have moved on by now. I didn’t expect we would put everything on hold for _ weeks _ to humor some insipid twat who wanted to _ audition _,” Shatterbird retorted while viciously sprinkling sea salt over her omelette for punctuation.

Ah. That narrowed it down. Cherish had found them and ambushed Hatchet Face just as they beat a hasty retreat from Burlington to escape reinforcements. They’d commandeered an isolated summer house for the duration of her tests.

This was bad, but still salvageable as long as Cherish didn’t join them.

“We will soon enough,” Jack answered. “Any preference? You can pick, but keep in mind that we might be looking for a new member by then.”

The notion of being in control of their destination seemed to placate Shatterbird for now. That, or the prospect of Cherish dying a horrible death in the very near future.

Jack took a sip from his mug, eyes back on Riley now that one potential crisis was averted.

“You’re being awfully quiet today.”

The mouthful of cereal she swallowed before speaking felt more like gravel.

“Didn’t sleep well,” she answered, voice thin.

The lie went unchallenged, which wasn’t nearly as much of a relief as it should be. She used to throw tantrums when she didn’t get enough sleep, but faking it might give Jack an excuse to go on the offensive.

“Well, Cherie is coming over soon to show us the result of Mannequin’s test. That should cheer you up,” he said, an amused smile dancing on his lips. “Oh, and we could send her to run those errands while I prepare my test. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

Shatterbird sneered.

“Make a list,” Jack told her, the slightest edge of annoyance coloring his voice, “and be specific enough to avoid a repeat of last time. Entertaining as it was, there’s really no need to destroy the house over off-brand purchases. Not while we’re still using it.”

Shatterbird gave no answer beside the squeak of her knife against the plate.

“Do you know what you’ll do? For your test?” Burnscar asked between two spoonfuls of her heinous crime against cereal.

“Eh. I play those by ear,” he answered, shrugging.

In the living room, the image on the television shifted as one news report ended and another started. Scion appeared, floating above a forest fire. The footage had been reconstituted for a documentary, but the result was realistic enough to fool anyone who didn’t know he couldn’t be filmed.

Crawler straightened, the full force of his attention on the golden man. He was probably the only person in the world who genuinely wanted to fight Scion, and the irony was not lost on Riley. Scion was on top of Crawler’s bucket list, up there with the Endbringers, Siberian, and that one cape in Juárez who could make all living matter in a fifty feet radius explode violently.

On the screen, Scion raised one hand and the image flashed with golden light. Memories spilled to the surface, too fast to be contained.

Riley bit the inside of her cheek to ground herself in the present, and the cutting material they were lined with pierced the flesh to draw blood. It helped a little, even if this particular present was not one she especially wanted to ground herself into. She swallowed the blood, eyes still on the television.

Would it happen again?

It would be fitting, finding herself with the crushing responsibility of saving the world as penance for the role she played in ending it the first time around. What could she even do about it? Killing Jack seemed like a good first step, but then again, it was a good first step for just about anything she wanted to do in the future.

A problem for later, she decided. Assuming there _ was _ a later.

Crawler let out a low growl of disappointment as Scion was replaced with Melinda Martin from Channel 5 News, a much less promising opponent.

“Poppet.” Jack cut into her thoughts with a chastising voice. “Elbows off the table.”

Riley realized she had stopped eating after Scion appeared onscreen, one hand holding the spoon in her bowl and the other pressed against the cheek she had bitten, elbow on the edge of the table. She hurried to move her arm.

“Sorry.”

“Good girl.”

_ Be a good girl _.

Riley swallowed another mouthful of gravel and blood.

“Siberian?” Jack continued, “We’re trying to set a good example here.”

Siberian wordlessly moved the severed arm she was gnawing on so the elbow was off the table too.

Burnscar craned her neck around to look at Jack, the flame in her hand coalescing into familiar outlines. “What time is Cherie coming?”

He took a sip of coffee, and a crease appeared between his eyebrows as he checked the time on the microwave. “She should be here already.”

_ Shit _. Riley carefully avoided thinking about anything in particular in the hopes that nothing would show on her face. She mechanically chewed her cereal, eyes on the television.

“Something must have happened. A shame, truly,” Shatterbird declared, the edge of a smile poorly concealed in her voice. “Crawler, have you seen anyone interesting on the news? We’ll need _ proper _ candidates.”

The conversation devolved into potential destinations and targets as Riley hurried to finish her cereal and dispose of her dishes.

“You don’t even _ get _ cold,” Shatterbird told Burnscar as Riley walked out of the kitchen.

“Cold weather is still gross. It would be nice to go somewhere warmer.”

The living room’s floor vibrated with Crawler’s rumble of agreement.

“We are _ not _ going back to Mexico,” Shatterbird snapped at him.

“Bonesaw.” Jack’s voice cut in just as Riley reached the stairs. Was it her imagination that made the name sound so taunting? “It would be rude to hide away while we’re expecting company.”

“Mannequin’s doing it,” she pointed out, pouting as she dragged her feet back into the living room.

“Mannequin doesn’t have a recurring ‘five more minutes’ problem,” he answered, his tone final. “Besides, I want everyone at the ready. Young Miss Vasil knows better than to keep us waiting this long. Something’s up.”

“Are we going out?” Burnscar asked, eyes alight.

“I do believe this requires investigation,” Jack said, flicking a pocket knife open. Light reflected off the gleaming metal and into Riley’s eyes. “If nothing else, we deserve some entertainment.”


	3. Speculator

The first time around, Cherish had arrived before breakfast, with an oversized coat wrapped around herself and red-rimmed eyes with the lights gone out. She’d been broken enough to join their family, and Jack had been  _ mad _ , because it meant  _ he _ didn’t get to break her.

He still found a way. He always did.

Cherish wasn’t even close to being the first person who joined with the ambition to take over the Nine, but she was one of the few who had gone with a long term plan. Didn’t matter. Jack had seen right through it within minutes, and Cherish had mistaken his interest as stemming from her self-nomination.

Was that his power at play?

Bonesaw had implanted safeguards in everyone while Cherish’s power was disabled for her test. Artificial neural connections to keep their intentions concealed, and a switch that would render them immune to her power once activated.

Assuming nothing else had changed, Cherish would have been on her way to the house when Riley woke up, well within her sensory range. The safeguards would give her artificial feedback about herself, but she could still read Riley’s emotions towards everyone else. 

She  _ had _ to know.

The smart, sensible decision would be for her to run the other way, but Cherish was scarcely familiar with the concept of smart, sensible decisions. She was much more likely to leverage the information for brownie points with Jack.

Why had she missed her deadline, then?

Riley sat on the bench by the door to put her boots on, and Jack’s scrutiny made her uncomfortably aware of every movement. Her breathing was steady, but required active concentration. She could have regulated it mechanically, but this body still felt too foreign for it to be comfortable.

How much information was his power feeding him about her? 

She considered going to the bathroom to buy herself a few minutes alone, but suspected he would see right through it and stop her, just as he had stopped her from going back to her room.

Shatterbird hurried upstairs, leaving Burnscar to gather their dishes in the sink while Siberian disposed of her leftovers.

Crawler turned off the TV and stretched, the armor plating on his back grazing the ceiling fan as he did. Murder Rat teleported out of the way as tentacles whipped out in every direction, and she reappeared next to Riley.

Their eyes met for a second, and only her acute awareness of Jack’s attention kept Riley from flinching away.

The rest of the face was easier to look at, if only because she could pick it apart with her power. The maxilla and mandible had been hastily reshaped into a snout, and muscles stretched over the bones with little concern for functionality. The uneven mouth didn’t close, and drool leaked between her teeth, forming tendrils that periodically broke under their own weight and fell to her feet.

The longer Riley looked, the harder it was not to cringe.

Clones aside, it had been a very long time since she’d gotten a good look at any of her old work. A few victims in asylums and hospitals had survived Gold Morning, and she had received photographs and reports in order to provide guidance to other doctors, but she never saw them in person. Which was silly, really, because it would have taken her a couple of hours to undo everything, while those doctors had taken months to get a quarter of the way there, even after she gave them step-by-step instructions.

She saw movement from the corner of her eyes, and chanced a glance while sliding one arm through the sleeve of her coat.

Jack fiddled with a cellphone while leaning against the countertop. The sight was jarring, as he  _ hated _ using cellphones. Not because of the logistics that came with keeping Shatterbird’s company – Mannequin could solve that easily enough. Jack just found that they clashed with his aesthetic.

There was only one person she could imagine on the other end.

The possibility of her demise coming from Cherish  _ texting _ Jack felt vaguely insulting, but the realization of what it meant threatened to cave in her lungs.

Was it already over? Did he know?

For a second, Riley was back in the pocket dimension, drowning beneath the false expressions the system pasted on her face as Jack and Gray Boy both looked at her and  _ knew _ .

She had no system to rely on now. The expressions were hers to fake, and she  _ knew _ she was doing a bad job. The drowning was hers to fight, and she had no lifeline to cling to.

Jack’s face betrayed nothing, and she averted her eyes just as he raised his.

Siberian joined her as she zipped up her coat, carefully placing a warm hat over Riley’s hair. Riley thanked her, and reached for her hand as they waited for the others.

Siberian’s protection made it easier to breathe.

Riley fumbled to reacquaint herself with the mental link to the spider boxes, then called all the active ones to her location. They trickled in from various directions until she had twenty or so.

Shatterbird came down the stairs in full garb just as Burnscar reappeared in the kitchen, Mannequin in tow.

“Do you think she chickened out?” Burnscar asked Shatterbird as they stepped outside.

Burnscar wore a sleeveless dress with no shoes, and unlike Shatterbird, she could compensate for it by heating the air around her. Shatterbird put considerable effort towards pretending the cold wind didn’t affect her, but no one was fooled.

“Perhaps she had a rare moment of lucidity about the disgrace her presence would bring to the team,” Shatterbird answered, words slurring slightly as her teeth chattered. “More likely, she failed to complete Mannequin’s test, and decided to run rather than pay the price. We’ll have to do something special in response. I have suggestions.”

“It’s Mannequin’s test. He gets to decide, otherwise it’s not fair,” Riley pointed out, raising her chin in his direction as he stepped through the door. While the words came almost naturally, the voice and demeanour required active focus.

Mannequin bent down to avoid hitting the doorframe, then pulled himself upright once he was on the veranda. He didn’t look any different from the last time Riley had seen him, and since she didn’t know what he was working on right now, it was safer to assume he had the same equipment as back then.

Shatterbird turned to him, and he shrugged. Cherish was too far removed from his favored type of prey for him to care much about the outcome.

“Her phone goes straight to voicemail. I suspect she got rid of it,” Jack said as he joined them, an unzipped coat over his shirt.

The tension in Riley’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, but the relief didn’t breach her mask.

“We’ll do it the old-fashioned way,” he continued, “Crawler can pick up the trail from the last tattoo artist she used.”

“Are we taking the RV?” Burnscar asked, thumb pointing towards the stolen vehicle parked a few yards away. It was big enough to fit Crawler, in the same way a milk crate was big enough to fit a body if you had the right attitude. The door had stickers with a happy-looking family of stick figures performing various outdoor activities, and additions had been scribbled in sharpie to more accurately reflect the current ownership.

Crawler let out a low sound, but didn’t elaborate, as he was in the delicate process of squeezing himself through the door leading to the veranda, and talking at the wrong time might undermine the structural integrity of the house.

They moved to let him through, and Riley took the chance to look around.

The house was surrounded by a forest, with trees tapering off around it, and a retaining wall on the side of a slope that had been carved out to build the foundations. Bushes and bare flower beds lined both the house and the path leading to the driveway, with bird feeders and tacky deer sculptures in between. The driveway was a teardrop-shaped patch of rocky ground that extended into a dirt road through the forest, with a chain and mailbox marking the edge of the property.

“ _ Must _ we take the RV?” Crawler asked once they were all gathered in the driveway.

Jack raised a hand to his chin, fiddling with his beard as he pondered the question.

“As much as I like to make an entrance, I’d rather keep a low profile until we know more. It would be embarrassing if reinforcements showed up before we even had a chance to look for Cherie.”

Crawler let out a long-suffering sigh.

*

Siberian knowing how to drive made a lot more sense now that Riley knew about Manton. Still, no one dared to comment. It had been empirically proven to be the best option available.

Mannequin had claimed the co-pilot seat despite his lack of eyes, because he was too tall to fit around the table.

This left Burnscar, Riley and Murder Rat to sit opposite Shatterbird and Jack, with the spider boxes hiding inside the furniture, and Crawler filling every inch of remaining space.

He’d be in one hell of a mood once he got out, but that would hopefully help solve the Cherish problem.

“I don’t know,” Jack told Shatterbird. “We can’t discount the possibility that it’s something else entirely.”

Riley’s eyes moved to Shatterbird before Jack’s could turn to her.

“She could be dead,” Burnscar pointed out.

“That would be dreadfully boring. She  _ knows _ what little Bonesaw is capable of,” Jack answered, his knife pointing to Murder Rat.

The mention had to be acknowledged. Riley forced herself to make eye contact while offering a toothy grin. He smiled back, eyes unreadable.

“Might not be  _ her _ choice. She could have, I dunno, been hit by a car? Caught in crossfire in a random fight? However people usually die when we’re not involved.”

“A fitting end, for someone who was never worth our time in the first place,” Shatterbird declared.

“Hm.” Jack let the sound hang in the air long enough for Shatterbird’s eyes to return to her book, then start stealing glances at him seconds later. She then followed Jack’s attention to Riley, and looked between the two of them with increasing scrutiny.

Not good.

Riley scrambled for something to say that would bring Jack’s attention back to Shatterbird and distract her, but Jack spoke first.

“I’m more inclined to think that she’s running. Could go in very different ways, depending on what set her off, how much of a head start she has, and whether she found other capes to enthrall for protection. Who knows, maybe she’ll surprise us and do something interesting.”

Shatterbird spared Riley another look, then scoffed.

“The only interesting thing that little twat has ever done was to kill Hatchet and nominate herself, and I still maintain that we should have killed her on the spot for the insult.”

Riley registered the words and calculating look a second too late, and by then, Shatterbird’s eyes had already narrowed on her.

“That’s the  _ second _ time today that you failed to call me out on my language.”

Suspicion dripped from her voice like ice water, forming puddles of dread in Riley’s lungs.

“Because it’s  _ annoying _ that I have to keep repeating myself.” The stress made it easier to find Bonesaw’s voice. “You really should know better by now. Maybe I’ll have to get  _ creative _ about it.”

If it turned into a fight, the vials in her pocket were her best bet to take out everyone around the table at once, but she’d have to pick one without looking, and the movement of the glass would tip off Shatterbird.

“You’ve been acting strange all morning,” Shatterbird continued.

“And?” Riley challenged her.

“Given the timing and who we’re dealing with, I have to wonder.”

Riley laughed, and the laugh wasn’t hers.

“Are you  _ insulting _ my work? You think my safeguards aren’t good enough to stop her?”

Shatterbird glanced at Jack, but he said nothing, and Riley didn’t dare to look at his expression.

“What did we eat last night?” Shatterbird asked, standing her ground.

“Macaroni with Bolognese sauce and grated cheese,” Riley answered without missing a beat or breaking eye contact, and letting as much annoyance as possible color her tone. There had been a few stray noodles at the bottom of the sink, and an empty jar of sauce in the dish rack. “Burnscar made it.” They only ate pasta when it was Burnscar’s turn. “It was good.” It never was, but Bonesaw wouldn’t say that.

“Thank you,” Burnscar answered pointedly, more in Shatterbird’s direction than in Riley’s. Shatterbird tended to be less polite about burnt food.

Shatterbird exchanged another look with Jack, then relented and went back to her book. 

Because he’d dismissed her concerns, or because she’d caught on to his game and didn’t want to interfere?

“We still haven’t decided where to go next,” Burnscar said after a moment of silence.

“We’ll see where the hunt leads us,” Jack answered. “Hard to make plans when we only know to expect the unexpected.”

“Sunday’s book club will have to be postponed if we’re on the road,” Shatterbird said. “It gets too messy when we do it here.”

The  _ book club _ . Riley suppressed a shiver. One more reason to scram as fast as possible.

The subject was enough for Shatterbird to hog the rest of the conversation.

It wasn’t quite enough to keep Jack’s eyes away from Riley.

*

The tattoo parlor was surrounded by police cars.

Siberian and Mannequin went first, clearing a path through blood and violence while the rest of them attempted to extricate themselves from the RV without stepping in too many of Crawler’s eyes.

Crawler remained behind, sulking. They cracked a window open so he could pick up Cherish’s scent.

“Five minutes,” Jack said as they gathered in front of the now much larger crime scene. “Just enough to get a feel of what happened, not enough to receive unwanted company. Then we hunt her down.”

He held out a hand, and Riley had no choice but to accept it. The contact made her acutely aware of the poison needles hidden in her fingertips, and the calluses on his skin reminded her of the implied threat when his hand had been on the back of her neck.

How long until she had an opportunity to act?

He wouldn’t let her out of his sight. Wouldn’t let her have five minutes to herself. Wouldn’t let her tinker. Even if she survived the day, he definitely wouldn’t leave her alone with Siberian for the night.

The hug they’d shared earlier lingered on her skin, cold, rough and unwanted. The prospect of being alone with him for  _ hours _ felt like collapsing on the floor in exhaustion, out of breath and too tired to fix her mother.

How long until she broke?

It had taken days, the first time. Maybe weeks. It had felt so long that she’d lost track.

Hours, the second time, from her power’s manifestation to the moment she gave in.

The woman in the suit had needed five words. Five carefully aimed bombs, in the right context, at the right moment, to shake the very foundations of her being.

More words from Tattletale, to strip away everything else.

The world had been at stake then, and it still  _ was _ . She might help him end it again, if he broke her.

He’d find a way. He always did.

She couldn’t afford to give him the chance.

He smiled at her as they stepped over the police tape, and she gave him Bonesaw’s best smile.

By the end of the day, either she would be gone, or one of them would be dead.


	4. Traitor

The good thing, Riley decided, was that everyone was already dead. It wasn’t like they would have been better off alive once the Nine arrived, and at least Jack couldn’t single her out to deal with the survivors in front of everyone else.

The smell of death used to be so mundane she barely noticed it, but the familiarity had dimmed with the lack of exposure in her time with the Wardens. The flick of a switch shut down her olfactory system to keep the distraction at bay.

The shop was a single room with open space and checkered floors. A partition wall made from wooden pallets created an alcove near the entrance, with couches and magazines. It also served to display clothes and accessories for sale. Framed designs covered the walls, numerous enough to leave the bricks barely visible. There were four tattoo stations, but only the one at the back had privacy curtains drawn around it.

Jack breezed past the two bodies in the waiting area and the one at the front desk, his firm grip dragging Riley along. He glanced at the woman in the first station without breaking stride, and only stopped when they reached the curtained enclosure.

Two bodies, on either side of the chair.

The wheeled cart serving as a desk had been tipped over, its contents scattered over the floor. Sickly shades of green, purple, brown and yellow mixed with the blood where the ink caps had spilled. The mirror on the wall had been fractured with repeated impacts, and a handful of fallen shards glinted under the fluorescent lights.

“What do you think?” Jack asked her, nudging the nearest body with his boot.

Riley crouched, half-hoping he would let go of her hand. He didn’t, and bent down with her instead.

Shatterbird walked past them to examine the mirror, and used the reflection to keep an eye on them as they examined the body. The others could be heard milling around the shop.

“Two hours, maybe,” Riley answered, poking at one of the man’s wounds. “Three at most.”

He’d died before she’d woken up, which was consistent with what Riley remembered. Cherish had pulled an all-nighter to meet her deadline, and killed the artists once they were done.

“I meant, what can we learn from the picture she painted here? This is good practice,” Jack said.

He’d tried to teach her, but she’d never been very good at getting into people’s heads. Didn’t matter. He was far more interested in what her words would reveal about herself than in any insight she could provide about Cherish.

Better stick as close to the truth as possible, to limit how much he could read into it.

“She snapped.”

He nodded for her to continue.

“The others are self-inflicted. These two aren’t. She killed them herself instead of using her power.”

Riley reached for the tattoo machine, attempting to pull it out of the man’s eye socket. It was stuck, and the angle made it hard to force with her right arm.

She turned her attention to the stool that had been used to bludgeon the other guy’s head. One of the metal legs was bent out of shape.

“Nothing creative,” she continued. “Just some straightforward lashing out. She kept going after they died, so maaaybe she had a bit of anger to work through.”

“What’s missing?”

“Her,  _ duh _ ,” she replied without missing a beat.

Better to let him talk than walk straight into that trap.

Jack inhaled sharply, a flicker of annoyance on his face, but it was the kind of annoyance she’d seen aimed at her every once in a while back then, not the kind where he decided to stop playing with his food.

“I see anger. Hatred. Despair. Disgust. Maybe some of the most genuine emotions she’s experienced in a long time, all in consequence of her own ambitions. It’s almost poetic,” Jack said, using his blade to draw a swirl of ink into the blood for emphasis.

The blood had started to congeal, so the effect wasn’t quite what he was going for.

He rose, and she followed, stepping back to take in the whole scene. Shatterbird turned to look at them.

“Oh, Mannequin can be proud of himself for this one,” Jack continued. “You can practically see the cracks radiating outward from the moment she broke. Except that the story she’s telling here ends with her doubling down on her plan to get a return on her investment, not running away to cut her losses. Something happened  _ after _ she left.”

His expression made it clear he suspected it was linked to Riley, but was enjoying this game too much to say it outright. She wracked her brain for an excuse that had nothing to do with her, to keep up appearances.

“Her brothers might have caught her before she came back to the hideout.”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“I would be very surprised if they were still looking for her.”

The first thing Cherish had done after Jack accepted her nomination was to take a selfie with them and send it to her dad.

Most of them had humored the request. Even Jack, despite his opinion on the practice. Shatterbird, however, had let her distaste be known by blowing up the smartphone, her emotions barely giving Cherish a second of warning to throw it away. Burnscar had lent her own as a replacement, and Riley distinctly remembered pondering whether they should include Hatchet Face’s body in the picture, and trying to convince Siberian to make a silly face.

Cherish’s brothers were definitely long gone.

“Maybe they were waiting for her to be alone,” she insisted. Jack hadn’t called out any of her lies yet, so she might as well keep derailing the conversation for as long as possible. “They could be back in Canada with her by now. Oh, we’ve never been to Montreal. Road trip!”

The cheer she’d injected in her voice felt more fake with every millisecond of silence before Jack answered.

“I don’t think Crawler will be up for that.”

Shatterbird inhaled to say something, but Riley hurried to speak before her. Couldn’t risk it. Unlike Jack, Shatterbird had no interest in playing games.

“We can get a bigger vehicle, like when we went to Mexico,” she said, careful not to look at Shatterbird. “It was a nice trip. We should do it again sometime.”

With a screech, pieces of the mirror were ripped out of their frame, flying to Shatterbird as she stomped off. One passed within an inch of Riley’s face.

She tittered.

Then she realized she was alone with Jack.

Her boots were sticky with blood as she took a tentative step forward on a white tile. Jack answered by setting foot on a black one. He followed as she skipped to the other occupied station, neither of them breaking the pattern.

The woman had died long before the others, a half-finished outline on her arm. Either Cherish had wanted to make a dramatic entrance, or the staff had needed some convincing to drop what they were doing and prioritize the ‘we accept walk-ins’ policy advertised with a neon sign on the door.

Riley gave the body a cursory inspection, then moved to check the tools and supplies laid out on the cart.

How far was Jack willing to play along?

“This is nice stuff,” she said, lifting one of the machines with her free hand. “Can I keep it? Pleeease!”

Siberian looked at her from the front desk, and Riley made sure to give her a good view of the tool. Even if Jack said no, Siberian might steal it for her behind his back.

“Only if you can fit it in your pocket,” Jack said. “We’re not here to loot.”

In the waiting area, Burnscar sheepishly dropped the pile of clothes and junk she’d liberated from the display.

Riley placed the machine in her coat’s pocket, and tried not to think too much about whether Jack’s permission was a good or a bad thing. He stood beside her, watching as she selected a few more bits and pieces.

Then, he let go of her hand.

He leaned against the wall, retrieving a handkerchief, and everything about the casualness of the move screamed danger.

“Maybe I’ve been reading this whole thing wrong,” he said, eyes on his knife as he meticulously cleaned the blood and ink from it. “Maybe she just changed her mind about being part of our family.”

Riley froze.

Less than a second.

More than an eternity.

Long enough for him to get his answer.

“What do you think?” he asked, meeting her eyes with an expression she forced herself not to decipher. “What would she do next?”

She grasped at internal controls, mechanically regulating her breathing so she could talk.

Even with breath, she found no words.

_ It’ll be over soon _ , she reminded herself.  _ It has to be _ .

The resolve gave her clarity.

Jack wasn’t invincible. She’d read the report of his defeat. Her therapist had pulled strings and insisted it was important for her to see.

Not invincible. Just tricky.

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” she answered.

He smiled.

“I guess we will.”

She smiled too, acutely aware of every single muscle holding her mask in place.

An electronic chime sounded behind her as the front door opened, but she couldn’t look without turning away from Jack.

He looked over her head, a hint of concern crossing his features. Then, his eyes settled back on her.

He stood straight, putting away the stained handkerchief without breaking eye contact, and walked forward.

Black tiles, again.

She stepped on the white ones as she followed him to the front of the shop.

Mannequin and a sulking Shatterbird were already outside, and Burnscar was holding the door open to let Murder Rat step through.

Riley nearly melted with relief when Siberian’s hand found her shoulder, shielding her as they walked outside with Jack in tow.

Crawler, one third of his body now in the parking lot, was demonstrating impressive flexibility as he attempted to extricate the rest of himself from the RV without bursting it open.

The strip mall had been evacuated by the police, and half the spaces were vacant anyway, but some of the people driving on the adjacent road were starting to notice them. Riley could tell, because they slowed down enough to check what was going on, then hurried past the speed limit to get away.

She waved at them, because that’s what Bonesaw would have done.

It was just enough of a distraction to keep her eyes away from the police officers lying on the ground.

Shatterbird and Burnscar were exchanging quiet words, but Riley couldn’t hear them over the rasp of Crawler’s armor plating against the metal.

Jack’s attention was split between tracking Crawler’s progress and scanning their surroundings.

Poison gas or an airborne pathogen would be the best way to take him out, as he was too close to avoid or outrun them once they were released. It was hard to gauge the nature and potency of the experimental samples in her pocket without examining them, but if she smashed two or three test tubes at the same time, one of them was bound to do the job. Shatterbird would feel the movement and might warn the others, but she couldn’t do anything else as long as the glass was under Siberian’s protection with Riley.

Even if she was killed right away, most of the Nine would die over the next hours or minutes.

And then it would spread, along with all the plagues contained within her body.

How many people were in the area?

She’d lost track of her body count a long time ago, and couldn’t even tell for sure how many digits the number had. It wouldn’t make a big difference.

It was still big enough to bother her.

Her hopes for a fresh start after Gold Morning had been quickly dashed, but the principle of the amnesty was that what you did now mattered more than what you’d done before.

The number wouldn’t go down no matter what, but the certitude – the  _ choice _ – that it wouldn’t go up either had been an anchor in a world that made little sense otherwise. A reminder of who she was, and who she wanted to be.

The Nine didn’t count, but the other casualties would.

At the same time, it was fewer people than they would have killed in the coming years. A lesser impact in the grand scheme of things, at the price of letting go of everything she’d worked for.

Did it matter, when she would most likely not be there to feel bad about it afterwards?

The ethics professor she’d been saddled with on a weekly basis hadn’t done much to prepare her for this kind of dilemma.

Her eyes fell on one of the bodies on the ground. Siberian was rubbing circles on her shoulder, with a gentleness miles away from the violence with which she had ripped the man apart.

No plagues, Riley decided. She wouldn’t let that number go up as long as she was alive.

She disabled the mechanism that would have released an explosive cocktail upon her death. She’d made an off-switch, because–

Because she’d considered the possibility of Jack being the one to kill her, and had told herself he would have a good reason, and he  _ hated _ plagues, and–

Siberian squeezed her shoulder, a concerned look on her face.

Riley consciously released the tension in her body, and found it replaced with the restless urge to crack all of her joints. She shifted position, inviting Siberian to lift her up to sit on her shoulders.

Just like old times.

With one last shriek, the RV spilled out the rest of Crawler, suffering surprisingly little damage in the process. Riley ordered the spider boxes to come out.

“Crawler? What’s the meaning of this?” Jack asked.

Crawler took his time, popping joints back the way they were supposed to be and stretching each limb before he answered.

“She’s close. Less than a mile.”

At once, two things became evident.

First, that Riley had been wrong about Cherish’s intentions. No point in waiting this long to alert the rest of the Nine, and it certainly looked like she wanted to see how things would unfold before stepping in one way or the other.

Second, that Cherish was  _ dumb _ . She’d been warned before her tests that joining the Nine was a lifelong commitment, in the sense that they would make sure her life didn’t outlast the commitment by much. She could track their location, and should have been able to infer that they were about to fulfill that promise, but she trusted her power so much that she didn’t question the inaccurate picture painted by the safeguards. She’d never even considered the possibility that they could fool her power until the plan was revealed.

That was useful, at least.

“Where?” Jack asked.

One of Crawler’s tentacles gestured vaguely to the road they’d arrived from, giving no real indication of distance or location.

“Thank you,” Jack said dryly.

“Could be an ambush, if she was waiting for us to come here,” Shatterbird said.

Crawler shook his head, and everyone reflexively stepped back as a few droplets of acid flew with the movement.

“She left, and followed us from a distance.”

In her peripheral vision, Riley saw Jack frown and look at her. She pretended not to notice.

“That makes it  _ more _ likely to be some kind of trap.”

“Bonesaw,” Jack said. “Turn on the protections. It wouldn’t do for us to be caught off-guard.”

She hesitated.

Jack had hoped for a dramatic reveal where Cherish would think her plan was a success, only for the rest of the Nine to free themselves from her influence. She’d provided the means and centralized the controls, because you couldn’t have a dramatic reveal without impeccable timing.

The safeguards were only noticeable when they were actively blocking something. If she lied…

If she lied, Jack would know right away. Not something she could get away with.

She flipped the switch, rendering everyone immune to Cherish’s power.

“Done.”

As soon as Jack looked away, she reached for her own safeguards, turning off the artificial neural system serving as a smokescreen over the emotions directed at Cherish.

_ Your power is feeding you bad info, and everyone is immune. We’re two minutes away from hunting you down. Help me, and I’ll help you. _

“If she has the audacity to attack us, I fully reserve the right to sand off every layer of her skin one by one,” Shatterbird said, sounding like she really hoped Cherish  _ would _ have the audacity.

Mannequin lifted one fist, then brought it down on his other hand, index and middle finger extended.

Crawler raised his head to inhale, turning it left, then right, then left again until he found what he was searching for.

“She’s moving.”

Jack’s eyes went back to Riley, expression unreadable.

“I guess she can feel the difference,” she lied.

Burnscar, standing behind Shatterbird, looked almost worried. She was having one of those days where she was fine in the quiet moments, but would dread using her power until she was coaxed into the right mindset. She’d put out her flames when they left the hideout, and Jack had been too focused on Riley to manage her since.

“She’s coming after us?” she asked in a small voice.

_ Yes _ , Riley thought.

“No,” Crawler said. “Going that way.”

This time, he used one of his hands to point with more clarity.

Siberian tensed as she saw the direction, and Riley’s heart dropped.

_ Manton. _

Cherish was going after Manton.

Of  _ course _ , Cherish would go after Manton, if he was close enough. Mastering him before they found her was the easiest way she could secure protection against almost anything they could dish out.

The cold that spread beneath Riley’s skin didn’t lend itself to shivers. It was the negative space of warmth being stolen away.

No one else seemed to notice Siberian’s reaction, and they lacked the necessary context to understand it if they did.

Shatterbird took to the air.

One spider box climbed up and folded its legs around Riley like a backpack. The others joined Jack, Mannequin, Burnscar and Murder Rat to hitch a ride with Crawler. Jack, she noticed, had positioned himself to keep both Murder Rat and the spider boxes in sight, with enough distance to strike them down if they attacked.

“Lead the way,” he told Crawler.

Siberian dashed out of the parking lot and into the street before Crawler had even moved, but her silent and steady footsteps were soon joined by his blustering run.

There was something exhilarating about moving at high speed without even air resistance in the way. It made it so tempting to tell Siberian to keep going and never stop.

The traffic had trickled down to almost nothing, which suggested that word had spread about their presence. The sirens sounding in the distance reinforced the idea. The town was small enough that it might not have much in the way of parahumans, but she couldn’t discount external reinforcements.

If heroes showed up…

Her priorities would still be the same. The only difference was the number of people who would be trying to kill her. If nothing else, a fight might provide distractions and opportunities.

Crawler was making headway, but hadn’t caught up with Siberian yet, and had to yell for her to make a turn.

Had she been headed for Manton? Did it mean that he was far enough from Cherish to be safe? It was hard to focus, when she couldn’t help but imagine herself falling to the ground as Siberian vanished, her affection stolen by Cherish.

Nothing she could do about it, she told herself, and Jack remained the priority.

With her back to the rest of the Nine, Riley retrieved the tattoo machine from her pocket, careful not to shift her posture enough to give away what she was doing. She took it apart in a matter of seconds, and set out to rearrange the components, adding the other pieces she’d stolen.

If she successfully disabled Jack’s power, she might be able to convince Siberian to turn against the others and run away with her.

The “if” was pretty big, but it was her best chance. Running away while the group was already in hunting mode was a terrible idea, and would only lead them to find out about Manton. Better to take out as many as possible, starting with Jack.

By the time Crawler caught up with Siberian, the modified machine lay hidden on Riley’s lap, under a flap of her coat. She couldn’t touch the jar of prions without alerting Shatterbird that shenanigans were afoot, but loading it would take only a second.

The machine looked like someone had taken a laser pistol from one of those old timey sci-fi shows Burnscar liked, took a hammer to it, added some random garbage, and instructed someone to reconstruct it from memory under a minute.

A less desperate person, such as the Riley of one day ago, four years in the future, would have rightly described it as embarrassingly crude junk.

Crawler took another turn as they reached the outskirts of town, where the forest on one side had been partially torn down to make room for new developments, then came to a halt.

A car had been abandoned next to one of the buildings under construction, door open and keys in the ignition.

“Hers,” Crawler confirmed. “Less than a minute.”

Riley relaxed a fraction. If Cherish had ditched her car, then she knew they would find her before she reached Manton.

Crawler turned to look at Shatterbird, who had fallen behind, then bent down to allow his passengers to dismount.

They gathered around the car while waiting for Shatterbird. Even while sitting on Siberian’s shoulders, Riley had to look up at Mannequin, who stood a few inches taller. Burnscar was next to him, the flame in her hand matching the glow of her eyes. The ride had allowed Jack to push her enough to start using her power again.

Riley carefully avoided looking at him, and drew Murder Rat and the spider boxes closer to Siberian.

“Shatterbird,” Jack called out as she joined them. “I believe you wanted to do the honors.”

Shatterbird looked absurdly pleased to take the lead. She flew with regal poise, wreathed in glass, and Riley couldn’t help but notice that some of it was bloody. She must have gathered it on the way.

They passed machinery and piles of materials as they went around the three story building, but no crew. A relief.

As they moved between the building and the forest, Riley was hit by a crashing wave of something too desperate for fear, but too hopeful for desperation. What it was didn’t matter as much as the fact that it fell sharply on the other side of her safeguards.

She glanced around, but no one else seemed to notice.

_ Oh,  _ now _ you want my help? _

Hope.

It hit a wall, but found an echo on the other side. Riley wasn’t about to discard an ally out of pettiness. Without any movement betraying her actions, she slammed off everyone else’s protections.

_ Now _ . _ They’re unprotected. _

Nothing happened.

_ Use your power _ .

Nothing.

What was Cherish waiting for?

Riley found the answer as she turned her head a fraction. Jack had fallen behind, standing a distance away at what she could only assume was the outer edge of Cherish’s range. A line he wouldn’t cross.

_ Don’t wait for him. Do it now, or it’s over. _

He met her eyes.

_ Now! _

Shatterbird screeched with unbridled fury as she turned to face the rest of the Nine.

Jack swung his knife at her without hesitation, but a wall of glass blocked the attack.

“Get Murder Rat,” Riley urged Siberian as spider boxes climbed on them for protection. Their components were insulated against Shatterbird's power, but not against the incoming storm of glass.

Some of them were too far to make it, and took cover instead.

Shatterbird didn’t have enough buildup to reach the whole city, but the freshly installed windows of the building began to sing in response.

Fire erupted around Burnscar, wide enough to engulf Mannequin, and bright enough that Riley had to look away.

Then, the glass exploded.

Shatterbird’s song was a spectacle they usually enjoyed from the balcony rather than the parterre, but the sound remained the same.

Deafening.

Riley reflexively squeezed her eyes shut as the tide of glass fell upon them, even though Siberian’s protection rendered it as harmless as a light drizzle.

She opened them wide as she felt Siberian step forward, eager to join the brawl.

“Don’t,” Riley told her before looking over her shoulder.

Jack had taken cover, but she could see his footprints in the mud.

She filled her machine with the prions, and drew a sigh of relief when it fired without trouble. The stream of powder spread in the air like a drop of milk in a glass of water, clouding the whole area around Jack.

His power would stop working within seconds.

Convincing Siberian to attack him would be too risky, she decided. Instead, she sent a few spider boxes.

A blazing inferno had spread inside the building, with Burnscar’s silhouette visible behind one of the broken windows.

The fire she’d left behind was still roaring around Mannequin, who glowed a bright orange.

No, that wasn’t right. The  _ molten glass _ around him was glowing. The combined efforts of Shatterbird and Burnscar had encased him to the point that he couldn’t even move.

Cherish  _ might _ have had a bit of a grudge there.

Crawler looked at the fight with uncharacteristic confusion, cocking his head like a dog and barely paying attention to the glass Shatterbird was pelting at him.

Cherish had mentioned before that he and Mannequin showed little emotion, to the point that she had trouble keeping tabs on them from a distance. She’d tried the offensive part of her power on him, at his request, to very little effect. Maybe her power was working at peak efficiency right now, or maybe something low-key like confusion gave better results than one of the more extreme emotions he wouldn’t feel otherwise.

Siberian cranked her neck to send Riley a pleading look.

“Not yet,” Riley answered.

Once Jack was out, they could deal with the others. Once his power–

The connection to one of the spider boxes abruptly vanished from her awareness.

Followed by another.

_ No. _

Another.

She couldn’t see Jack, but knew he was cutting them down before they reached him.

His power was still active.

_ No _ .

Why hadn’t it worked?

Her heartbeat pounded in her throat, so loud she couldn’t hear anything else.

“We need to go,” she told Siberian.

Cherish had already offered the perfect excuse to convince her.

“Your other self is in danger.”

Siberian bolted.


	5. Defector

Siberian ran with purpose, pulverizing anything in her way. It was early enough in the spring that the trees and bushes were still bare, and only the remnants of last year’s undergrowth covered the ground. Riley reflexively squeezed her eyes shut at each burst of splinters from a stray branch or a small tree, fingers tightly knotted through Siberian’s hair for balance.

She _ so _ wasn’t used to this anymore.

Murder Rat was squeezed under Siberian’s arm, bobbing with every stride in a way that could _ not _ be good for the stapled tissue. A few spider boxes had gathered on top of her, others clinging to Siberian however they could.

In a matter of seconds, they’d covered enough distance that Riley couldn’t hear the fight anymore, and she allowed herself to glance behind. They’d traveled down a slope, and only the orange glow of the fire was visible above it.

No one in sight. No one coming after them.

Now, she just had to provide a credible explanation for what happened. Maintaining some level of pretense would be necessary to keep Siberian on her side, but more than anything, Riley needed to shake her loyalties to the rest of the Nine.

“It’s not just Cherie. Jack _ knows _. He used to be curious about you, but now he’s more interested to see if he can take you out. He was planning something,” she told Siberian. “I didn’t want to risk losing you.”

Steady heartbeats punctuated her lies, eased by the tension that trickled away from her to the rhythm of Siberian’s steps.

“He has a power that lets him manipulate parahumans. That’s how he keeps the group together. That’s how he always wins. We can’t fight him. Too risky. We just need to get away, as far as we can.”

There were holes in her story, but attempting to fill them after the fact would draw more attention than letting them be. She glanced down to gauge her audience, but couldn’t see Siberian’s expression from her angle.

“We don’t need the Nine,” Riley added carefully. “We can be our own family.”

Siberian gently squeezed her leg in response, and Riley tried to focus on the relief of securing an ally rather than the image of the mangled police officers that flashed in her mind’s eye with the contact.

Maybe she could pretend that she wanted to try something different after leaving the Nine, and convince Siberian to try too.

Convince _ Manton _, she amended. Even after taking multiple clones apart and studying the mechanics of the power, she still couldn’t help but see Siberian as her own person.

Siberian came to an abrupt stop, head snapping in the direction they’d come from. Riley hadn’t heard what caught her attention, but her heart rose into her throat as she held her breath to listen.

At first, she could barely hear anything, but the sounds were growing louder with startling speed. Repeated impacts, similar to Siberian bulldozing her way through the forest, but heralding a much larger shape.

_ Crawler _.

“Keep going,” she urged Siberian, the image of Jack riding on Crawler’s back still fresh in her memory. “Could be a trap or a distraction.”

Siberian nodded, then leaped down an entire slope and shifted course to the right.

Attempts against Jack were usually met with swift retaliation, and she couldn’t afford to underestimate him. He was definitely intrigued enough to be a little reckless, and it _ was _ his turn to make a move. He couldn’t fight Siberian, but his most devastating attacks were always aimed with words rather than knives.

With his power at play, there were no safe assumptions.

Jack wasn’t the only possibility. In the past fifteen minutes or so, Cherish had proven both her special talent for ill-advised plans and her willingness to backstab potential allies. She might still be looking to get her hands on Manton, now that subtlety had been thrown out of the window. It was possible that she’d pushed Crawler their way to buy herself some time to go after him.

If Crawler was alone, then only his tracking ability posed any real danger, as long as Riley remained under Siberian’s protection. They couldn’t risk leading him to Manton, but she had to assume that Siberian’s change in direction came from the same reasoning.

The position made it arduous to find the right chemicals in the pouches strapped to her thighs, but she managed it after some wiggling and a few questioning looks from Siberian. She eyeballed the ratios based on what she remembered of Crawler’s senses, but with no hard data to rely on, there was no way to know whether it would work.

Blue smoke erupted as she combined the two test tubes, washing over them and hopefully masking their scent.

Siberian took another turn.

Riley was aware of the relative position of her spider boxes, and could give them orders with little more than a thought, but receiving feedback was trickier. It didn’t help that she hadn’t used them in years and was still a bit fuzzy on the controls.

She retrieved her phone and punched numbers in, only for a “Password incorrect” message to pop on the lock screen. Her second attempt gave the same result.

Riley bit down a string of words that would undoubtedly have broken character. Precious seconds were wasted hacking the phone into submission.

A map appeared on the screen, with cartoon spiders shamelessly stolen from Love Bug representing each spider box. Thirteen were left of the twenty she’d brought from the hideout. Six with them, and seven that had successfully evaded the glass and fires by themselves. Most used biological components for sensory input, but a minority were equipped with cameras. There were two in the group they’d left behind.

Riley turned on the video feeds.

The first spider box had taken refuge under a piece of machinery between the building and the forest, and saw no sign of activity other than the fires as it peered between the wheels. She sent it to look around as the second one struggled to free itself from a pile of materials.

Jack was gone, of course.

Everyone was gone.

Mannequin’s absence was perhaps the most surprising, given the position he’d been in when they left. Then again, it wasn’t impossible that Shatterbird had used her power to move him while he was encased in glass.

Not a concern for now.

At Jack’s last known location, the spider found blood. He’d been injured in Shatterbird’s attack, but not enough to be life-threatening – not with her safeguards.

No hint of how he’d avoided the prions, but his footsteps led into the forest.

The urge to run away grew tenfold.

The other spider boxes emerged from hiding to follow the trail. They moved as fast as they could, spreading out so the whole group couldn’t be taken out at once, and were autonomous enough that she didn’t have to micromanage them.

She looked over her shoulder, and while the view was cut short by the slopes all around, she could still hear Crawler knocking down trees with reckless abandon. Her attempt at confusing his senses hadn’t made much of a difference, although she suspected that their short head start was more to blame.

Now that he was closer, the noise made it obvious that he was alone. He would have been much more careful with passengers, as they usually preferred to remain alive and relatively intact.

The second camera showed that Cherish’s car had left behind most of its windows and mirrors, as well as hurried tracks in the mud. There were three sets of footsteps leading to it, one of which was still smoking.

It was predictable, in retrospect.

“Cherie took the main road. I think she went north,” Riley told Siberian. “Is your other self that way?”

Siberian shook her head.

It didn’t mean much, when Riley had no idea where Manton actually was or how the roads connected, but he could make the judgment call and move out of the way if necessary.

Still, it was always better to tackle the problem at the source. What Cherish might have taken for an advantage also provided Riley with leverage.

_ If you go after him, I’ll turn the protections back on and you’ll lose control over Shatterbird and Burnscar. Do you _ really _ want to deal with a pissed off Shatterbird who’s immune to your power? _

She reactivated the smokescreen over her own emotions, just in case. Going through with the threat would only solve one problem by creating two more, but she was pretty sure that Cherish had enough self-preservation to scram for now.

A problem for later, maybe. When Jack wasn’t a consideration anymore.

Would he ever not be?

There was still no hint of his whereabouts, but she couldn’t shake off the visceral need to get away from him.

She _ needed _ to know where he was, but it was quickly becoming obvious that Crawler would catch up with them before she had an answer.

Years ago, he’d caught on to the fact that the best way to provoke Siberian was to attack Bonesaw, which had led to an interesting couple of days. She couldn’t remember how Jack had shut it down, only that he _ really _ didn’t want them to fight.

Could Siberian actually kill Crawler?

The answer, to the best of her knowledge and experimentation, was a definite ‘maybe’. It was the sort of thing you couldn’t know for sure without testing it empirically, and doing that kind of defeated the whole point.

Her educated guess was that it depended on Siberian’s speed and starting point. If she found his core and destroyed the whole thing faster than Crawler could regenerate, he would die. If she didn’t… It was hard to predict how his power would react.

Well, the empirical testing was going to happen whether they wanted it or not.

With a thundering crash, Crawler landed behind Siberian, looking ready to pounce and barely holding himself back as she turned to face him.

“You’re leaving,” he growled, his tone accusatory.

Riley considered their current position, and found very little plausible deniability there.

“What about it?” she challenged.

Siberian couldn’t cross her arms while holding Murder Rat, but the gesture was very strongly implied as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other.

“Fight me.”

At least he still had his priorities in order, even after their blatant betrayal of the Nine.

“Everyone _ else _ was fighting,” he insisted.

Siberian twisted her head to look up at Riley, eyebrows raised to concede the point.

Riley exhaled through her mouth, louder than she’d meant to. There was nothing she could do if either of them decided to just go at it, but until the spider boxes found something, Crawler was her best source of information.

“Where’s Jack? Can you smell him?”

He raised his head to inhale deeply, then motioned to his right.

“How close?” she asked pointedly.

He huffed, repeating the gesture twice with increasingly annoyed emphasis.

Riley swallowed a few character-breaking words and took a calming breath.

“What about the others? Mannequin?”

Crawler’s tentacles twitched at the mention and he looked almost embarrassed, opening his mouth to speak, then closing it after a few seconds of silence.

“I… _ may _ have run him over a bit,” he admitted, then misunderstood Riley’s expression and promptly added, “He’s sturdy. He’ll be fine.”

He certainly was, if the glass had been cracked enough for him to move away before the spider boxes started investigating.

Another unknown variable.

“I’ve been waiting for _ years _,” Crawler complained, drawing out the word.

Riley stiffened as the connection to one spider box snapped. The phone beeped a second later. She mentally checked the location in relation to herself, swallowing to soothe the dryness in her throat.

“Fine,” she relented. “Whatever. Just make it quick.”

Crawler threw his head back, baring several rows of mismatched fangs for a cry of victory that shook the ground and splattered it with venom. He moved slowly at first, almost savouring the anticipation, then rushed forward when he couldn’t stand to wait anymore.

Siberian adjusted her grip on Murder Rat and leaped to meet Crawler’s gleeful approach.

Riley tucked her head between her shoulders, eyes squeezed shut and breath firmly held, keeping her focus on the remaining spider boxes as Siberian tore into Crawler. She’d instructed them to stay out of sight and keep tabs on Jack from a distance, and their movement made it obvious that he wasn’t coming after her.

He was _ running away _.

It felt painfully obvious in retrospect, but the fear that had gripped her by the throat when he effortlessly thwarted her attack had led her to expect nothing but immediate retaliation. Seeing that he’d gone into the forest had only reinforced the idea. Now, with a fuller picture, she suspected that he’d only wanted to get away from Cherish as she retrieved her car.

Something wet slapped the top of Riley’s head, followed by an engulfing pressure. A heavy rumble dug into her skin from all sides, reverberating through every structure beneath.

Siberian twisted around, swinging Murder Rat, and the rumbling stopped. With two strides, they emerged. Once the fluids had slid off, Riley raised her head to see Crawler’s mangled body.

It wasn’t regenerating.

Huh. That was a pretty definitive answer to that question. At least he died fulfilling one of his dreams. She hoped he had the time to enjoy it.

Siberian turned to run.

“Wait.”

She stopped, and Riley gripped her phone to review the footage from the destroyed spider box. Jack was only visible in the last second of the video, his silhouette wreathed in plumes of white smoke.

_ Her _ white smoke.

A custom biocide, which she usually kept around in case one of her creations got out of hand. A perfect counter to all things biological.

She could even guess where it came from.

The months before Murder Rat’s creation had been a long string of unsuccessful recruitments and short-lived members who barely lasted weeks.

Gordius had been one of those. A spiritual successor to Breed, in a way. His bodily fluids carried microscopic eggs that would quickly grow into worms of ridiculous lengths inside a host, allowing him to puppeteer their body. His claim to fame was a brief stint at a restaurant, followed by a swift arrest when he attempted to contaminate an entire town’s water supply.

When the Nine broke him out of containment, she provided tubes her teammates could clip to belts or wear on a chain and twist open to release the smoke when needed. Within hours of the jailbreak, she’d inoculated everyone, and the tubes became irrelevant.

It never crossed her mind that he could have kept one.

At what point had he retrieved it? When they were getting ready to search for Cherish? While she was getting dressed?

When she woke up?

He’d known something was off from the start, and he’d been prepared.

Her biggest mistake, she realized, was to assume that there was safety in distance. The passengers didn’t need proximity of the hosts to communicate.

No amount of distance would ever keep her safe from him.

Jack thrived most when presented with a challenge, and she had no doubt that he would come after her. This was too new, too unexpected, too interesting for him to resist. He’d find new allies and rebuild the Nine with a goal in mind, then keep himself out of reach until he was ready to make his move.

There would be a matter of pride, too.

People didn’t _ leave _ the Nine. They were killed, either by an enemy or a teammate, and then they were replaced.

Harbinger was the only person who’d successfully retired, but that was before Jack took over, and Jack saw him as a friend and an equal. She’d asked him about it while she was in Cauldron’s custody after her surrender, but he was… evasive, and derailed the conversation with his _ opinions _ about the “inaccuracies” of her clones. He had no appreciation or respect for how hard it was to reverse-engineer an entire person from scratch, especially when all she had to go by were public records and bedtime stories.

The clones had been her idea, but she had no doubt that Jack would come up with something of equal measure. He’d spend weeks, months, years preparing their big showdown and meticulously crafting those elaborate lose-lose scenarios he was so fond of.

He might even find out about the end of the world along the way.

He’d given Theo Anders two years to hunt him down and kill him. How long would he give her?

How long would _ she _ give him?

Every instinct was screaming at her to run and keep running, but they weren’t instincts she could trust.

This was the most vulnerable he would ever be. If she couldn’t beat him now, when he was the closest thing to unprepared and alone, then she couldn’t beat him once he had every advantage in the book. Running away would only work in his favour.

_ Everything _ she did would work in his favour, as long as her passenger was communicating with his.

Her hand went to her pocket, retrieving the handful of test tubes she’d taken with her. Bonesaw’s most recent projects.

If Cherish was still in the middle of her tests…

She found the vial. Found three more she could reasonably use against him.

Siberian was cranking her neck to look up at her, still waiting to understand what was going on. Riley reached for her free arm, and Siberian helped her to the ground. The spider boxes jumped off as she tentatively put down Murder Rat without breaking contact with Riley.

“Do you trust me?” Riley asked in a small voice.

Siberian nodded, a concerned look on her face.

“I know how to beat Jack, but it only works if there are no other parahumans around. I need to go alone.”

Concern turned into a frown.

“Can’t take the risk, with his power. We don’t have much time, and we won’t get a better chance than this.”

There was so much she couldn’t say.

“_ Please. _He’s running right now, but he’ll come after us. We’ll never be safe if he gets away.”

Siberian’s hand tightened around her shoulder, her power flickering for emphasis.

“No, he’ll find a way around it. He always does.”

The argument was too weak to budge the iron grip on her shoulder. Riley swallowed, buying herself a second to find a better one.

“You know the kind of games he likes. He could convince you to hurt me. He could force you to _ kill _ me to save your other self. You _ know _ he would.”

Siberian hesitated.

“I have a plan, don’t worry.” 

She did not, but with Jack’s power, maybe it was better that way for now.

Siberian let go, and Riley felt no relief, only cold.

“I need your help too! Mannequin’s missing. I need you to find him, make sure he’s out of the way.”

_ I need _ you _ out of the way. _

“Bring Murder Rat. If I–” Riley caught herself. “I’ll use her to contact you when it’s over.”

A rough plan etched on the ground by a spider box indicated which section of the forest to avoid.

Siberian lifted Murder Rat over her shoulder, but didn’t step away.

“I’ll be fine,” Riley assured her, double-checking to make sure the system that would release a bundle of plagues in the event of her death was turned off.

Siberian did not look convinced.

Riley smiled, and found that Bonesaw’s smile was much easier to perform when Jack was not in the audience. Siberian hesitated, then stepped closer and stroked Riley’s hair, managing a small smile of her own. She nodded, and they went their separate ways without a word, the spider boxes flanking Riley.

Saying goodbye felt too final.

She uncorked the vial and swallowed the content before she could second-guess herself.

Communication was a two-way street. If she couldn’t affect Jack’s end, she could always shut down her own.


End file.
